Month: December 2023

Evening Poetry, December 3

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Advent Calendar
by Rowan Williams

He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to the bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.

He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

You can find this poem in Haphazard by Starlight.

Evening Poetry, December 2

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Moon setting over The Sound of Arisaig by Dumgoyach is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0
Why Are Your Poems So Dark?
by Linda Pastan

Isn't the moon dark too,
most of the time?

And doesn't the white page
seem unfinished

without the dark stain
of alphabets?

When God demanded light,
he didn't banish darkness.

Instead he invented
ebony and crows

and that small mole
on your left cheekbone.

Or did you mean to ask
"Why are you sad so often?"

Ask the moon.
Ask what it has witnessed.

You can find this poem on the Poetry Foundation website.

Evening Poetry, December 1

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Approach to B9119 junction by Stanley Howe is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

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Slow Down
by Michelle Weigers

This morning I'm so tired
from pushing myself hard,
that as I drive down this country road
I can't bring myself to go

anywhere close to the speed limit.
I feel like a silver haired lady
peeking over my steering wheel
as I creep along, letting

the cars whiz by me.
I always assume the elderly
go slowly because they're cautious,
not wanting to hit anyone

or miss the ambulance
racing down the road with siren blaring.
But maybe they've figured out
a secret that I'm still trying to learn.

What if driving slowly
is the only way
to live my best life,
to keep from running so fast

that I go right past myself?
Running by the small child inside
who seeks to fill herself with wonder,
passing up the chance for rest,

for play, to slow myself
long enough to notice
how pleasant the rain sounds
dripping onto the roof

of the house next door,
tiny wet whispers tapping
those few remaining leaves
clinging to the maple

in my backyard,
an almost silent thrumming
slowing down my weary soul.
The steady chime

of church bells ringing
in the distance, in this moment,
reminding me, I've already
been given all that I need.

You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.